The Painted Soul
by Christina Anton
Summary: A story of the love between a father and his daughter.


*Revised*  
======================================================  
A story based on the characters of Sailor Moon.  
  
The Painted Soul (PG)  
  
by Christina Anton (daylin@sailorsenshi.i-p.com)  
aka Hydrophobic  
  
http://angelfire.com/anime2/dayanjell/antons/home.html  
  
*Note: This takes place during the S season, before   
the senshi find out the identities of Sailors Uranus   
and Neptune.  
  
This story is on of a father's love for his child.   
Though they are mentioned, there are no monsters or   
senshi appearances. This is meant to be a little   
sappy, not just a little sad, and hopefully uplifting.   
So if you're looking for violence and blood and the   
sailor senshi kicking the butts of evil villains,   
you're not gonna get it here.   
  
I had started writing this a week or so after my   
grandfather on my mother's side passed away. I   
eventually lost track of it with bunches of other   
things going on in my life, and only started on it   
again after my grandfather on my father's side passed   
away nearly a year later. And, once again, the   
storyline got pushed into the back of my mind by the   
goings on in my life. It has taken me a long while   
to get this story done, but I think the time spent on   
it has made it all the better. That said, I'd like to   
dedicate this to both of my late grandfathers. God   
bless you, Popop and Popop Duke.  
  
If anyone finds a few inaccuracies in this story,   
don't get on me too much about it unless you really   
think it needs to be fixed. It was a little hard   
writing this story, and I will admit to taking some   
creative license when I was struggling to get through   
a few scenes.  
======================================================  
  
The Painted Soul  
  
Prologue: Wake Up Call  
  
It was eight o'clock on a Saturday morning when Ami's   
bedroom door opened, her mother walking softly to her   
bedside.  
  
Ami was laying on her side, her back to the door. She   
awakened when she felt a hand on her shoulder, her eyes   
blurry from sleep. She turned her head, looking into her   
mother's face and seeing her red eyes and cheeks that looked   
recently scrubbed of moisture.  
  
She looked at her mother in surprise, and at the look,   
her mother sniffled a little. "Ami-chan," she said in a   
soft, controlled voice. "Your father passed away this   
morning." The elder Mizuno swallowed convulsively, trying   
to keep back her tears.  
  
Ami just looked at her mother in shock for a moment   
that seemed to last for an eternity. Then, tears starting   
to form in her eyes, she whispered in a choked voice,   
"H-how?"  
  
Her mother closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed   
again. "He was hit by a car. H-he didn't even see it   
coming." She brushed away a few tears from her own cheeks,   
hand still on her daughter's shoulder.  
  
Ami just turned her head back to face the far wall,   
tears running down her cheeks and falling to absorb into her   
white pillow. Her mother just rubbed her back as she   
started to shake with sobs, hugging her pillow to her chest.  
  
When her sobs died down, her mother was still rubbing   
her back in a comforting manner. "I have to go to the   
hospital and fill some things out. I'll leave you alone if   
you want, or I'll stay if you want me to." The whole time,   
Ms. Mizuno kept rubbing her daughter's back.  
  
Ami turned her head back to her mother, her face red   
and cheeks still wet, and shook her head gently. "No, I-I'm   
fine. G-go do what you have to do." She gave a small sob   
then, and then continued. "I'll still be here when you get   
back," she whispered hoarsely.  
  
And then Ami's mother's face scrunched up in a sob, the   
torrent of tears that she had been holding back flooding   
out. Ami put her arms around her and they cried together on   
her bed, one for a lost father, and the other for a lost   
friend and once-husband.   
  
  
  
  
  
Part One: Reflections of a Soul  
  
Tears. Salty, wet tears, clear as miniature crystals.   
They run down the faces of the mourners in tiny streams,   
absorbed by a white tissue or handkerchief before they can   
ruin a nice dress or good silk tie. All these tears for   
just one man, and an undeserving one at that. They are only   
mourning the loss of an artist, and the worse loss of an   
investment. Though now that I'm dead, my art will no doubt   
skyrocket in price.  
  
There is a group of people, all female except for one   
young man, that seem genuinely grief-stricken at my passing.   
One of them is my ex-wife, Emiko. I knew that my death would be   
hard on her, her and my daughter both. Images of those two   
had been my last living thoughts, thinking about how sad   
they both would be when they heard of my death as I laid in   
the street, seeing my crimson blood furthermore darkened by   
the black of the asphalt beneath it.  
  
There was so much I wanted to do for them! So much I   
wanted to tell them! But isn't that why I am still here?   
Or is this all there is to death? Walking about the earth   
as a ghost, unable to do anything but watch and be unseen by   
those around me? Or perhaps this is my punishment for   
getting divorced and not being with my daughter, my little   
Sunfish, as she grew up?  
  
The priest is saying the last words of the funeral   
ritual, and they are now lowering the casket which contains   
the cosmeticized corpse that once contained my soul down   
into the manmade rent in the earth. When the casket sinks   
below the level of the ground, I can see the white marble   
tombstone that marks my grave. Engraved in black, the   
inscription reads:  
  
Mizuno Koji  
Beloved father, friend, and artist  
January 28, 1958  
~  
November 18, 1993   
  
Those in attendance at my funeral are preparing to   
leave, coming up to Emiko and my child, and giving a   
few words that are meant to give comfort. They accept the   
words politely, tears still drying on their cheeks and a few   
more leaking from their eyes, but I can see that the small   
group of five girls and one young man behind them are the   
ones giving them the most comfort. They must be Ami's   
friends.  
  
I look upon my daughter with pride. Even though the   
last time I saw her in the flesh while I was alive had been   
when she was eight, I'm proud of her. Once in a while I   
have seen her in the newspaper, getting an award for winning   
a science fair or for just being the incredibly smart person   
that she is, and I would always cut it out and keep it in a   
small scrapbook. That scrapbook has every photo and   
newspaper clip that I have of her in it. At the moment,   
it's on the coffee table in my small apartment in Kyoto.  
  
That is, if my apartment hasn't been cleaned out yet.  
  
Everyone but Emiko, my daughter, and her friends   
have left now. Ami is being hugged by one of her friends.   
It's a blonde with an odd hairstyle, almost as if she has   
dumplings on her head. Okay, my little Sunfish has friends   
with odd hair. I can deal with that as long as she's happy.  
  
I move closer so I can hear what they're saying. It's   
a little strange moving as I am. I'm walking, but it's like   
I have no weight at all. Like a strong breeze could blow me   
away like a wisp of smoke. But, the breeze that riffles   
through the ladies' dresses goes right through me without   
any affect at all. I stand next to the group, careful not   
to touch any of them; I don't know what, if anything, will   
happen if I do.  
  
"What do you want to do now, Ami-chan?" the blonde with   
strange hair asks my daughter.  
  
Another blonde, this one with a red bow in her hair,   
puts her hand on Ami's shoulder. "We could all come over   
and keep you two company for a little while if you want."   
She includes Emiko with a smile. "Right, everyone?"   
The others nod their heads in agreement.  
  
Ami looks at her mother, then at my grave. Looking   
back at her friends with a sadness that I have never _ever_   
wanted to see in my child's eyes, she says, "Thank you,   
everyone, but I think I'd rather be alone for a little   
while, if you don't mind."  
  
Seeing her so sad tears me up inside. A pair of tears   
leave damp tracks down my cheeks. All I want right now is   
to let her know I'm there for her! I wasted what could have   
been time with her by filling up that time with painting and   
traveling, and now I can't even hug my own daughter to let   
her know that I finally AM here for her.  
  
I'd like to let Emiko know that I'm here for her   
too (what I wouldn't do to be able to do so!), but we had   
already said our goodbyes to each other seven years ago. We   
divorced because our lifestyles clashed too much. She, the   
dedicated doctor, and I, the free spirited artist, just   
couldn't get along after a while. There were no hard   
feelings, just a goodbye that we knew would be for a long   
time. Little did we know what a long time that would be.  
  
With the help of her mother, Ami has gotten her friends   
to head off to their homes, telling them that she will talk   
to them later. Somehow, the five girls pile into the   
dark-haired young man's car, and they drive away, Ami and my   
ex-wife looking on.  
  
They stand there for a moment, and then look back over   
at my grave, Ami turning a little more hesitantly than   
Emiko. Neither says a word; they just look at my grave,   
which hasn't even been filled in with dirt yet. Apparently,   
the people that are supposed to do it are giving Emiko   
and my daughter some time to mourn. I move so that I am   
standing next to them, unseen by either woman. I hope   
fervently that they can sense my presence and know that I'm   
there for them.  
  
So softly that I almost don't hear it, my daughter   
whispers, "He'll never send me another painting."  
  
Emiko puts her arm around her and pulls her close   
to her side, neither woman's eyes leaving the grave. Ami   
puts her hand around her mother's waist, holding her just as   
close. I long to be able to put my arms around them, but I   
know that it just isn't possible now.  
  
"Oh Ami-chan, my lovely daughter, I miss him too, even   
if I never had the relationship that you had with him." She   
leans her head over to kiss the top of our daughter's head.   
Emiko is about an inch taller than her, but Ami is only   
fifteen, and she might grow a little bit more. "He may   
never be able to send you his paintings anymore, but you'll   
always have the ones he gave you. You'll have the   
memories." She sighs. "I just hope that where ever he is,   
he appreciates that we've buried him instead of cremating   
him. This has cost an arm and a leg, but it's the only thing   
I can do for him." She smiled.  
  
Despite the sadness of the situation, I can't help but   
laugh. I really do appreciate Emiko's last gift to me.   
Ever since my mother died in a house fire when I was ten, I   
had had an intense fear of fire. I had told her about it   
even before we had gotten married, and I'm glad that she   
hasn't forgotten. On a late night a year after we had   
gotten married, just six months before she had announced   
herself pregnant with Ami, I had told her that when I died,   
I didn't want to be cremated. She's spent all this money on   
burying me just because of a silly fear of mine. It touches   
my heart that she would do this for me. If I could kiss her   
at the moment, I wouldn't hesitate to do so.  
  
"Hai, I think father appreciates it," Ami says softly.  
  
At this moment, I really do try to touch them. I step   
forward and stretch my arm out towards Ami, only to have the   
hand that would have landed on her shoulder go right through   
her.  
  
It is a strange thing. Even though I can't feel what   
must be a chilly breeze out here, or smell anything in the   
air, or physically touch anyone, I can feel them. It isn't   
like a physical touch or feeling, but more like the heat you   
feel from putting your hand near a heated stove. Ami has no   
reaction that I can see to my hand going through her, so I   
do the same thing to Emiko. It's almost the same feeling   
that I got from Ami, but slightly different. It is hard to   
explain, but it's different as all people are different.   
Maybe I'm touching the warmth of their souls?  
  
I spend so much time thinking on this thought, that I   
don't realize that my daughter and Emiko are getting into   
their car until I hear the car's doors slam shut. That has   
always been one of my problems, one which played a part in   
my divorce and distancing myself from my daughter, my little   
Sunfish. I've always been able to lose myself in one   
subject that has decided to interest my mind, to the point   
where sometimes I just sit for hours doing nothing but think   
about that one thing. However, I'm also known for my   
impulsive behavior. But enough about that.  
  
My family's car has just driven off.  
  
  
  
  
  
Part Two: Odd Phenomena  
  
The fruit juice tasted bitter. Ami sat the half-empty   
glass on the kitchen counter and stared at it. Wasn't fruit   
juice supposed to taste sweet? She picked the glass up   
again and sniffed the liquid. It smelled sweet. Why didn't   
it taste sweet? Resigned to her distasteful fate, she   
downed the rest of the bitter liquid that was supposed to be   
sweet and put the empty glass in the sink.  
  
Taste had been like that ever since her father had died   
three days ago. Everything that passed her lips tasted   
bitter, but her sense of smell worked just as it should.   
Normally, this phenomena would pique her curiosity, but she   
just couldn't dredge up the energy to really care. So what   
if only water tasted right? All she wanted to do was sleep   
for a week.  
  
The house was dark. After she and her mother had   
gotten home, the elder Mizuno had kissed her forehead and   
announced that she was going to bed, even though it was only   
five-thirty. Ami thought her mother had the right idea, and   
chose to go to bed early herself shortly afterward. She was   
so tired.  
  
But she didn't get any sleep.  
  
She had tossed and turned until the shadows lengthened   
in her room and night painted her bedroom walls with   
swirling darkness. There was no moon. After rolling onto   
her stomach for the thousandth time, she had decided to get   
up and get something to drink. Which was now why she was   
standing in her kitchen, surrounded by white cupboards and   
cream-colored tile, with an empty glass that had once   
contained bitter tasting fruit juice (that should have   
tasted sweet) resting in a stainless steel sink.  
  
She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room,   
her only light being the bulb over the kitchen stove. It   
spilled out to provide just enough light to see the outline   
of the living room furniture.  
  
She just stood there, at the entrance to the hallway   
that would lead her back to her room if she chose to walk   
down it, with the light above the kitchen stove at her back   
and her eyes studying the dark shadows of her living room   
furniture. What else was there for her to do? She couldn't   
sleep; laying down made her feel oddly vulnerable, so just   
laying in her bed until she might eventually fall asleep   
wasn't a very appealing option, and she didn't feel like   
reading or doing anything on her computer.  
  
Maybe a monster would attack and occupy her time. If   
she exhausted herself enough, she might be able to fall   
asleep afterward.  
  
Still standing in the living room, she looked at the   
communicator on her wrist and waited for that telltale   
beeping that would announce an attack of the monstrosity   
kind.  
  
And she waited.  
  
And waited some more.  
  
A sigh. So much for that idea. The blue-haired girl's   
head drooped forward until her chin hit her chest. She   
would just have to find something else to occupy herself   
with. Just plain thinking was out of the question. Grief   
almost always reared it's fanged head whenever she allowed   
her thoughts to wander aimlessly. It was like the feeling   
were just waiting to pounce, eager to sink it's claws into   
her.  
  
She walked over to her mother's living room desk and   
turned on the desk lamp. The light was the sort one would   
see on an accountant's desk, right down to the green plastic   
light shade over the fluorescent bulb. It provided enough   
light to see the details of the living room clearly, and was   
pleasantly dim. Ami didn't want any bright lights at the   
moment.  
  
She wandered over to the entertainment center, enjoying   
the soft carpeting beneath her bare feet. There were   
several pictures strategically placed on the shelves and on   
top of the entertainment center, and she took her time   
looking at them, remembering every moment captured in the   
flash of a camera. She and her mother at her mother's   
cousin's baby shower. That had been interesting. Her mother   
at her break in the hospital, wearing her scrubs and the   
white coat that signified one to be of the medical   
profession. She was sitting down at a table with a   
dark-haired woman and had a smile of amusement on her face.   
It was nice to see her mother happy. A picture of herself   
reading on the old sofa they'd had until two years ago, her   
baby picture . . . she stopped dead at one image.  
  
It was of her and her father. She was seven years old   
and his chin was resting on the top of her head with his   
arms around her middle. Ami could remember everything from   
the day that picture was taken ("Smile for the camera   
Ami-chan!"). Her mother and her father had decided to spend   
a Sunday at the park near where they used to live. They'd   
had a picnic. Watching her father make a smiley-face out of   
the food on her plate and handing it to her with a flourish   
was one of her fondest memories. He'd been so creative with   
everything. Faces out of food, dragons out of clouds, even   
sound given form; along with the breathtaking landscapes   
that he was more known for, he had also loved to paint   
fantastical, sometimes even silly images. He had sent those   
paintings to her the most often. Each painting had come   
with a small envelope containing a note that told of how   
he'd gotten the idea for the painting, always starting with   
"My dear little Sunfish."  
  
Sunfish had been his pet name for her. "You are as   
bright as the sun and are like a fish in the water, so   
you're my little Sunfish," he had said to her once when she   
had asked why he called her the name. Her father always   
made her feel like the best person in the whole world.  
  
And now he was gone.  
  
She let out a shaky breath and realized she was crying.   
Again. Tears had come in fits and spurts since he had died.   
Hit by a car in Kyoto on his way to breakfast. Now that she   
thought about it, Ami realized that that was an incredibly   
stupid way for him to die. He could've taken the bus there   
instead of walking across the hazardous streets, couldn't he   
have? That would have been the sensible thing, wouldn't it   
have been? How could he have just LEFT! Her fingers   
tightened around the picture of her and her father, almost to   
the point of breaking the plastic frame. She didn't know   
when she had picked it up. He left her all alone in a world   
where no one truly understood her! He had been her constant,   
her solid rock in the raging river of life, and--  
  
The back of Ami's neck prickled. Her eyes slowly   
scanned the room, sure that there was someone else in the   
dim room with her. She could swear it on her father's   
grave, in fact.  
  
"Father?" she whispered. The room was silent.  
  
It was nothing, Ami, she thought to herself. Just   
wishful thinking. There was no one in the room with her.   
It wasn't possible, was it? Putting the picture back on the   
shelf, she decided to try going to sleep again.  
  
But, after she had turned off the desk lamp and started   
down the hall to her room, she couldn't get the thought out   
of her mind that she had felt a feather light touch on her   
shoulder while in the living room.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She felt me, I know she did.  
  
I've been watching Emiko and my daughter ever since they   
got home. I honestly don't know how I got here from the   
cemetery, just that one second I was wishing to be with them   
when they got to their apartment, and the next I'm standing in   
their living room watching them come through the door of their   
home in Tokyo. I guess it's just a useful perk of the   
afterlife.  
  
I went back and forth between watching Emiko sleep   
fitfully and my daughter lay in her bed and not sleep at   
all. I had watched Ami get up and get a glass of juice and   
then watched her look at the pictures in the living room.   
When she had gotten to the picture of her and me, and I had   
seen the tears run down her cheeks and the grief apparent on   
her face, I was overcome with a need to comfort my little girl.   
Always my little girl. My little Sunfish.  
  
I tried to touch her shoulder, and the second my   
ghostly hand brushed the warmth of her physical body, her   
back had stiffened and she had looked around the room   
warily. And then she whispered my name.  
  
My name! She knew, somehow, that it was me in the   
room! She'd felt it! "It's me, Ami, I'm here!" I'd called.  
But, of course, she hadn't heard me. It was, and still   
is, incredibly frustrating.  
  
As she walks down the hallway towards her bedroom, I   
see her crack open Emiko's door and check on her mother.   
Apparently finding nothing wrong, she eases the door shut   
without a sound. Oh, what a good doctor she will make with   
her kind of care! That warm feeling of pride for my little   
Sunfish flares up again.  
  
Ami turns back around in the hallway suddenly. She has   
this little frown of concentration on her face, an   
expression that I've found so wonderfully cute ever since   
she was a toddler. I'm standing only a few feet in front of   
her, and she looks right through me while obviously trying   
to find something in the hallway with her. "Ami, can you   
feel me?" I whisper. I reach out a hand towards her, having   
a silly urge to wave my hands in front of her face and jump   
up and down like a little boy in order to catch her   
attention.  
  
She shakes her head. "You're cracking up, Ami.   
There's nothing there," she murmurs.  
  
"But there IS!" I scream. But it's no use. She just   
turns her back on me and pads down the hallway to her room.   
She shuts the door behind her.  
  
I'm a depressed ghost. How cliché. How many movies   
have been made and stories written about ghosts and spirits   
who despair over not being able to let loved ones know they   
are there? I've read plenty of stories about the subject,   
and seen quite a few websites dedicated to the subject of   
ghosts and why they exist. Paranormal stuff is just a   
little fascination of mine.  
  
That brings me to think that maybe this isn't really   
even happening at all. What if my mind has somehow   
incorporated my fascination with ghosts and spirits into a   
dream? An extremely vivid dream, but it might be.  
  
But I don't believe it.  
  
Though, if this actually _is_ a dream or hallucination   
I'm having while in a coma or something, it's nice to know   
that my active imagination will follow me everywhere. Or   
maybe I'm imagining all this while I'm dying? I'm reminded   
of an American story written by a man named Ambrose Bierce.   
I remember coming across it in a library while finding   
information for a paper in college. It is an odd, but   
creative short story, by the name of "An Occurrence at Owl   
Creek Bridge."  
  
Set during the American Civil War, it is about a man   
named Peyton Farquhar being hanged by Federal soldiers.   
Just as he is about to be hanged, he imagines his escape and   
return to his wife and home in vivid detail. Anyone reading   
the story for the first time would think he really _has_   
escaped the noose and gotten home safely. But, as he   
finally reaches his goal of seeing his wife, the reader is   
struck with the sudden reality that Farquhar's neck has just   
been snapped by the cruel rope. His whole escape has only   
been a last second thought before death.  
  
Is that what this truly is, this life after death? I   
quite possibly could only be imagining all of this while   
dying in the middle of the street in Kyoto.  
  
But, even if I am, I'm still not going to stop being   
here for my family.  
  
  
  
  
  
Part Three: A Walk In the Park  
  
Ami stared at the ceiling. It was off-white. How   
blank. It was what she desperately wanted her mind to be   
for just a little while.  
  
She had been awake for the past half hour, having been   
woken by the sharp beams of sunlight cutting through her   
window, and she had been staring up at the ceiling ever   
since. Four hours of sleep. Even so little time in   
oblivion was welcome to her, since she had expected to get   
much less.  
  
Turning her head to the side, she saw that the glowing   
green numbers read 6:50. On a normal day she would have   
been getting ready for school by this time. But, today   
wasn't a normal day, and neither had the trio of days before   
been. It didn't matter if she went to school today; she was   
far enough ahead in her classes that missing some days   
wouldn't harm her grades. Besides, her not going to school   
for a while was expected.  
  
She got up. Maybe she would go for a walk. See the   
multi-colored leaves in the park before they all turned   
brown with decay. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she   
slipped out of her pajamas and took out a pair of jeans and   
a warm sweater. She buttoned up her jeans and shrugged on   
the sweater, slid some thick socks onto her feet, and grabbed   
a light jacket. She didn't want a cold to add to her   
troubles.  
  
She wondered if her mother was up yet. Looking in her   
mirror, she noticed that her hair was a mess. She didn't   
particularly care that it looked like a bird's nest, but she   
supposed that she should at least make an attempt at making   
it decent. After running a brush through her hair until it   
had some semblance of normalcy, she left her room with her   
jacket over one shoulder.  
  
Her mother woke up when Ami cracked the door open.   
They just looked at each other for a few long moments.  
  
"Are you going out?" her mother asked from the bed.  
  
Ami opened the door fully and entered the room. She   
sat on the edge of the bed next to her mother. "Hai, just   
to the park," she answered. Mother looks worse than I do,   
she thought.  
  
They didn't ask one another if they were all right;   
they already knew the answer. Ami and her mother were not   
all right, and wouldn't be for quite some time.  
  
Instead, Ms. Mizuno only asked her daughter to be   
careful.  
  
Ami nodded and kissed her mother on the cheek before   
she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.   
  
* * * * *  
  
Ami walked along a nearly deserted pathway in the park   
with her head down, looking at the gray concrete rolling   
along beneath her feet. Her hands were in her jacket   
pockets. She felt a little chilly.  
  
Being only a little past seven in the morning, there   
were not a whole lot of people in the park. Those she did   
see were morning joggers or just plain morning people. Or   
maybe some, like herself, just couldn't sleep the morning   
away no matter how hard they tried.  
  
A bright blue sky looked down upon her, with a few   
white clouds stacked upon each other like piles of   
comfortable pillows dotting the blue expanse. A dark   
thought snaked its way into her mind through a doorway of   
sleep deprivation, whispering that the sky itself was   
mocking her. The blue-haired girl was inclined to agree   
with it.  
  
Feeling the urge to have the springy feel of grass   
beneath her feet, she edged around a trash can to her right   
and stepped off the gray pathway. She was disappointed to   
feel a flat jolt as her sneaker-clad feet connected with the   
ground. The grass may have still been green, but it was   
dying in accordance to the approaching winter, it's springy   
feeling gone.  
  
Letting out an aggrieved sigh, she stepped back around   
the trash can and let herself collapse onto the wood and   
iron bench sitting next to it. She let her head fall back   
on the top of the backrest and got a glimpse of the   
sickeningly cheerful blue sky (with pillowy white clouds)   
above her, before her eyes slid shut.  
  
Ami was an intelligent person. She had read numerous   
passages out of equally numerous books on psychology. She   
knew the stages of grief and the exact order those stages   
went in. But reading about such things in a book and   
knowing those stages hadn't helped her at all. Her   
knowledge was little use and poor comfort in the face of   
actually feeling what she had read about.  
  
And right now, she had almost achieved a state of   
blissful blankness within her mind. The morning sun was   
shining right on her, making her feel warm all over despite   
the slightly nippy air. After the restless nights and   
constant emotional stress, her mind seemed to be giving up   
the ghost (Father?) and shutting down for a nice nap right   
on the bench. Sleep . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Part Four: A Helping Hand  
  
A sound intruded upon her little bubble of peace. Ami   
put a little effort into forcing her mind into awareness,   
instead of sinking back into a dream of white pillows and   
night darkened waters with hundreds of stars twinkling   
overhead. As she gradually rose from the depths of sleep,   
the sound stopped being one noise and became what she   
realized to be voices coming from two different sets of   
vocal cords. One was husky and sounded very male to her,   
and the other was higher pitched and almost musical, and   
sounded very female.  
  
Her curiosity overrode her want of sleep, and her eyes   
fluttered open to see the cheerfully blue sky above her.  
That sickeningly cheerful blue sky.  
  
Sometimes she wished that she hadn't been raised not to   
curse and make rude gestures whenever she was this   
irritated.  
  
Shoving the feeling aside, more because she didn't much   
feel like depressing herself much anymore than because she   
remembered that she had heard voices, she looked to her   
right.  
  
Kaioh Michiru smiled back at her.  
  
Well, she thought, where there's one . . . . She looked   
to her left.  
  
Tenoh Haruka raised a slightly amused eyebrow.  
There's the other.  
  
"Good morning, Ami-san," Haruka greeted her.  
  
"What are you two doing here?" Ami rasped. "I thought   
there were classes today."  
  
"There are," Michiru replied.  
  
"Just not for Mugen Gakuen today," Haruka continued.  
  
Seeing that Ami was having trouble wrapping her mind   
around her partner's words, Michiru added, "It's a 'staff   
development' day."  
  
Haruka snorted. Michiru aimed a sharp look at her.  
  
Ami was oblivious to the exchange. "Oh." The girl   
looked at one, then at the other. "That still doesn't   
explain why you're _here_." She indicated the bench the   
three of them were sitting on.  
  
The blonde girl reared her head back in indignation.   
"Well if you don't want us here . . . ."  
  
"Haruka, hush," Michiru chided. The violinist looked   
back to Ami. "We saw you sleeping here and didn't think it   
a wise idea to leave you sleeping alone in a park. So, we   
decided to keep you company."  
  
Normally, Ami would have been a little nervous and   
off-balance around the aloof pair. They had always seemed   
so inaccessible, like they were on a pedestal far above her.   
But, even though the famous pair was much higher than her   
socially, they didn't seem that bad in person. Also, she   
wasn't feeling much of anything but disappointment and grief   
anymore, and this strangely comfortable feeling was making   
her feel a little better. At least it was taking her mind   
off of her father.  
  
Haruka decided to start the conversation up again. "We   
heard about your father."  
  
Ami came very close to growling, but then gave up on   
the reaction. Too much energy would be expended in the   
effort. At least they seemed to know about it so she   
wouldn't have to explain it. She nodded.  
  
"Does your falling asleep here have anything to do with   
that? Taking naps in public parks isn't a very smart thing   
to do, you know," the tall blonde commented.  
  
Ami winced. Falling asleep there _was_ an incredibly   
stupid thing of her to have done. But she was just so tired   
lately . . . . It was then that she realized what an   
opportunity she had at that moment. She hadn't been willing   
to talk to anyone about her father's death, mainly because   
the only people she had to talk to were much too close to   
her. It was a struggle for her to talk to close friends   
such as Usagi, Rei, Makoto, and Minako, about such personal   
things. Sometimes she just needed to be listened to by an   
impersonal ear.  
  
And here were two of them sitting next to her,   
seemingly willing to listen.  
  
"Yes, my falling asleep here does have to do with . . .   
that."  
  
"Mmhmm." Michiru waited patiently.  
  
Ami's cheeks reddened completely without her consent.   
She hated trying to find words in emotional situations.   
Life had been so much simpler when she had an almost   
constant clinical detachment. "I . . . umm . . . would you   
mind," she shoved a few wind-blown locks of hair out of her   
eyes, "if I talked to you about it?" There. She'd said it.   
Now what were they going to say?  
  
"You want to talk? Then we're here to listen," was,   
surprisingly, Haruka's answer. Surprising, at least, to   
Ami.  
  
Oh great, Ami thought. Now what do I say? I can't   
just tell them _everything_, can I?  
  
But why not? What did she have to lose? She didn't   
have much to lose in telling them, and shouldn't she, for   
once in her life, get a whole issue out into the open? What   
was the worst thing that could happen?  
  
Well, there was totally embarrassing herself in front   
of Haruka and Michiru, for one.  
  
Oh, hell, Ami. Just spit it out and get it over with.   
If you're lucky, you might feel better afterward. Take a   
freaking risk for once!  
  
And so she did.  
  
She told them everything. From how she felt when her   
mother told her about her father's death Saturday morning,   
to how she couldn't shut her mind down enough to sleep at   
night.  
  
"I think the worst part about it all, is that I never   
got to say goodbye to him," she sniffled. "I know, I know,   
I couldn't have known that he was going to get hit by a   
stupid car on his way to breakfast, but it's still hard."  
  
A comfortable quiet enveloped the three girls on the   
bench after Ami's tear choked statement, broken only by   
distant city sounds and the closer chirpings of birds.  
  
Michiru made a small humming sound. "Shall I give you   
a little advice, Ami-san?"  
  
"Please, do." Maybe the violinist would be able to   
solve her problems with a few well-placed words. Yeah,   
right, Ami's pessimistic side retorted. A few "well-placed   
words," and presto! All of your problems are magically   
solved! Ami could have sworn that someone "tsked" like an   
exasperated mother into her ear. Since when have you   
reverted to the age of inanimate plastic toys? Things don't   
work like that.  
  
Michiru brushed an errant leaf the color of spilled   
blood off of her skirt. "I think I might know a way for you   
to take a big step in accepting your father's death,   
Ami-san. Your father was a very talented painter. Haruka   
and I went to one of his exhibitions once." Ami blinked in   
surprise. "Has his talent for the brush passed on to you?"  
  
A faint blush colored Ami's cheeks. She nodded   
tentatively. "I paint once in a while, yes." She wasn't   
the best, and she certainly wasn't as good as Michiru, but   
Ami had a slightly above average artistic ability.  
  
"When I feel strongly about something, or agitated, it   
often helps if I paint the issue," Michiru continued. "Many   
of my best paintings were spurred by the strongest of   
feelings. Maybe if you paint your father as you remember   
him, with all of your feeling for him, you might be able to   
deal with his passing better."  
  
"You should listen to her about this stuff. I do,"   
Haruka murmured. Her indigo eyes held Ami's navy blue for a   
moment before the racer broke contact to look at her   
partner. A smile twitched the blonde's lips.  
  
"Paint him," Ami sighed. Painting therapy. She   
thought she remembered reading an article about that once.   
"I think I'll try that." Ami stood on newly strengthened   
legs, born from a spark of hope for a not so bleak tomorrow.   
It was like seeing the proverbial light at the end of the   
tunnel.  
  
"Thank you, Haruka-san, Michiru-san. I truly   
appreciate your impersonal ears." Ami was rolling along on   
a painted pathway towards a better tomorrow, and the words   
coming from her mouth were sincere and straight from the   
brain. As such, Haruka and Michiru didn't really understand   
the "impersonal ear" part as the blue-haired girl strode   
quickly down the park's cement pathway with canvas and   
oil-based paints on her mind.  
  
Haruka and Michiru shared a content, but quizzical   
look.  
  
"Geniuses. Who knows what goes on up there."  
  
* * * * *  
  
When Ami came home, her mother was sitting at her desk   
in the living room, dressed for the day in a pair of   
comfortable tan slacks and a Tokyo University sweatshirt.   
Ami's mother hadn't been a student at the university, but   
had been in charge of a volunteer blood drive there; the   
university gave her and the other volunteers the sweatshirts   
as a reward. As Ami entered the apartment, the older woman,   
with hair just a shade blue lighter than her own, looked up   
from a sheet of paper she was reading.  
  
"Hi, mother" Ami greeted, studying the maternal side of   
her parentage. Her face seemed to have a few more lines   
than she remembered there being, and her pallor was just   
short of being as white as the walls of the living room.   
But, there wasn't that completely lost and defeated look in   
her eyes anymore. There was sadness and a bone-deep   
weariness in them, but no sign of the defeat that Ami had   
dreaded the permanent occupancy of in her mother's cerulean   
eyes. The look that was now in her eyes was one that was   
very familiar to the fifteen-year-old genius. She saw it   
every time her mother came home after one of her patients   
died.  
  
With infinite relief, Ami realized that her mother was   
on her way to accepting her ex-husband's death.  
  
Now, Ami needed to do the same for herself.  
  
"What're you reading?" she asked her mother.  
  
The elder Mizuno blinked down at the paper she had been   
looking at. "Oh, just an old letter from your father."  
  
Ami walked up to her mother, giving her a hug from   
behind. She rested her chin on her mother's shoulder and   
looked down at the letter. There were several other letters   
on the desk, all with a slanted handwriting that she   
recognized immediately. Her father's handwriting.  
  
Her mother sighed and smoothed down a folded corner of   
the letter. "This one was when he went on that trip to the   
States."  
  
Ami remembered that trip. She had been six years old   
when her father had gone on that three week trip. She had   
missed her giant playmate terribly, but he had made it up to   
her by coming back with a set of watercolor paints and a   
child-sized easel for her.  
  
Her mother told her little things about each letter for   
a time, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, Ami right   
along with her.  
  
After a little while, Ami decided it was time. "I need   
to do something. It might take me a long time to do it, but   
a . . . friend of mine says it should be done."  
  
Ms. Mizuno looked at her daughter. "Okay. I'll leave   
you to it." She gave her daughter's back a little rub.   
"Just tell me if you need me, all right?"  
  
A smile curved Ami's lips and she kissed her mother on   
the cheek. "Sure thing."  
  
Ami left her mother to her letters and walked down the   
hallway to her room. If she remembered correctly, she still   
had a blank canvas in her closet and her paints and brushes   
were in her desk drawer.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Ami paid no attention to the time as she painted. The   
canvas was her world, the wooden easel was the mythical   
Atlas holding it up, and the paints and brushes at her side   
were her tools of creation. Newspaper crinkled on the floor   
as she dropped a paint-stained rag in favor of adding a new   
color to her brush.  
  
As she painted, she barely noticed her mother's brief,   
concerned looks into her room, and the setting sun coloring   
her room's light-blue walls a soothing lavender shade.  
  
It was a long time before her new-found artistic   
inspiration began to lose steam. She began to notice her   
over-stressed body's complaints, grumpily communicated to   
her through a parched throat, a fiercely growling stomach,   
and the all around pains of exhaustion. Her breathing was   
heavy and her hands were starting to shake.  
  
But that was all right. She looked at the image   
replacing the previously empty canvas. It wasn't yet   
complete . . . but she had the strong feeling that it was as   
complete as she was going to get it.  
  
The picture was, of course, of her father, as per   
Michiru's suggestion. Ami had put everything she had into   
this picture; every bit of grief, every ounce of happiness,   
every feeling she had ever had for her father. The image   
itself was created with soft, feathery brushstrokes, and   
realistic uses of both dark and light colors. Her father   
was sitting on a plain wooden chair, his pose one of relaxed   
contentment, dressed in the same grey t-shirt and jean   
shorts that she remembered him wearing the day of her   
favorite picnic. His left arm was resting on a wooden table   
as plain as the chair, his hand holding a pair of his   
ever-present sunglasses. His black hair was pleasantly   
mussed as it had always seemed to be, and his chocolate   
brown eyes held a mirth that was reflected by the warm smile   
on his lips. The room around him was painted in slightly   
darker colors than her father, and only two decorations   
adorned the two visible yellow walls. One was a poster of   
her father's favorite baseball team, an American team   
called the Mariners.  
  
"Here's the thing you most need to know about baseball,   
my little Sunfish," he had said to her once. "We Japanese   
may be a little better at the sport than the Americans, but   
they know how to have fun. _That's_ why I like an American   
team, and always will."  
  
The other decoration, directly over the table on the   
second of the two walls, was a window.  
  
There wasn't anything really special about the window.   
It looked to be made of the same color wood as the chair and   
table, except the windowsill had carvings of distinctly   
Japanese fish on both sides. She didn't know why she had   
painted them in, just that it seemed so _right_ to do so.   
However, there was one more thing that made the window stand   
out.  
  
Empty canvas shown through what would have been glass   
had it not been a painting.  
  
And that was why it was still unfinished. Ami knew   
_something_ had to go there, she just wasn't sure _what_.   
But, she was also sure that she was done with it. She was   
filled with the comforting assurance that all would be well   
in the end. Who knew? Maybe someone was supposed to come   
along and finish it.  
  
Yeah, right, Ami. Get a grip, will you?  
  
Ami chuckled to herself, tickled with the prospect of   
someone filling in the blank spot in her painting. Who   
would ever do that? She stretched her sore muscles and   
looked back at her clock. She was very surprised to see   
that the glowing numbers read three o'clock in the morning.  
  
"Wow, no wonder I feel like I've been hit by a bus."  
  
Unable to ignore her need for food and drink anymore,   
Ami got up on shaky legs and headed for the kitchen. The   
apartment was dark, and her mother was obviously in bed. In   
an exhausted haze, she hastily ate some leftover pork and   
rice right out of the carton without even pausing to taste   
it, and drank two tall glasses of water. Absently throwing   
the carton away, she headed back to her bedroom, exchanged   
her clothes for some comfortable flannel pajamas, slid under   
the covers, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.  
  
For the first time in days, Mizuno Ami slept with a   
smile on her face.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I have to admit, that Michiru woman knew what she was   
talking about. Watching my daughter paint, not just with   
her brushes, but with her soul, was one of the most   
beautiful things I've ever seen. But, even as the artist in   
me appreciated the painting, the father in me wanted to   
firmly take the brush out of her hand and gently tuck her   
into bed. I mean, she was wearing herself out to the point   
of collapse! What kind of father would I be, if I didn't   
want to take care of my own daughter?  
  
I would be the same kind of father I had been since she   
was eight.  
  
Yes, yes, I sent her my paintings and letters, but what   
did they really mean in the long run? They were a shallow   
attempt to stay in contact with my daughter and to show her   
that I cared, when if I really _had_ cared, I would have   
visited her at least once. But did I ever visit her? _NO_.   
I was too busy painting and sightseeing, and trying to   
forget that it was partly my fault that Emiko and I   
divorced and left Ami without a father. And here Ami has   
gone and painted me as she remembers me, in an attempt to   
show her gratitude and grief for a man who practically   
ignored her after he left when she was eight damn years old.   
EIGHT! How could I have done that!  
  
I don't deserve her grief! Not my daughter's, and not   
my ex-wife's! It's not as if I had ever done anything for   
them, is it? I don't think so.  
  
Ami is shivering. Did I do that? I instinctively go   
over and pull the covers closer around her.  
  
And did I just do _that_?  
  
I touch the covers again . . . and I actually TOUCH   
them. I don't mean my incorporeal hand touched them in the   
way of passing through the covers, I mean I've actually   
TOUCHED them! I can't believe this! Maybe it's _feeling_   
that's enabling me to do this? I look at the painting   
resting on its easel across the bed from me, the blank   
window beckoning me. Well, Koji, you may not deserve your   
daughter's care for you, but you're sure as hell gonna   
reciprocate it while you've got the chance.  
  
I walk around the bed to the unfinished painting. Ah,   
my little Sunfish, it's got your style, but where's _you_?   
This painting is empty with just me. And is this truly how   
you see--no, saw me? Was I ever that young? I laugh.   
Well, now . . . I see the problem. It's all to realistic.   
And it needs just a little of my touch . . . . You've put   
your all of your feelings for me into this, and so will I   
for you.  
  
I finish filling in the empty window some time later.   
Shortly after I put the brush down, a golden light appears   
in the room. What is this? I turn to see . . . oh. Oooh.   
It's . . . it's so beautiful. Is that . . . yes, yes it is.   
Mother . . . . She offers a hand to me, and then gestures   
to Ami with the other. A choice . . . .  
  
* * * * *  
  
Ami awoke with an urgent need to visit the bathroom.   
Stumbling to the door that adjoined her room and her own   
bathroom, she did her business with much relief. As she   
washed her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror of her   
medicine cabinet. She looked better than she had the day   
before. She wasn't quite as pale and drawn looking, and the   
bags under her eyes were definitely lighter. She breathed   
in, and smelled the slightly acrid smell of paint. She   
yawned and left the bathroom to take another look at her   
painting, amusedly wondering if someone finished her   
painting for her.  
  
She looked at the painting.  
  
Well what do you know. Someone did.  
  
Ami rubbed her eyes, thinking that her eyes were   
playing tricks on her. It took three determined rubs (that   
just caused her eyes to water) for her to be convinced that   
her eyes _weren't_ playing tricks on her.  
  
Someone had finished her painting.  
  
She didn't know how long she stood there gaping. She   
shook her head and took a closer look at the window that had   
been blank before she went to bed. Maybe her mother . . . ?   
No, her mother didn't paint this, she was never into   
painting. Could she have done this in her sleep? This was   
. . . no, it couldn't be. Ami studied the finished window,   
noting how the bolder, more assured strokes contrasted with   
her feathery, somewhat hesitant ones. It reminded her very   
much of her father's style, but that wasn't possible, was   
it?  
  
Why not, Ami? You've been dead before, and _you_ did   
something for someone you cared about. Usagi, the world,   
doesn't matter except that the dead _can_ do things.  
  
The image filling the window was of a clear blue sea   
that was a very odd sight to look at considering that it was   
a window from what seemed to be a normal house that the   
observer was looking at it through.  
  
And, there was a sunfish swimming in that sea. Her   
logical side briefly took over while she was foundering in   
her own sea of disbelief. It's not a sea, because a sea is   
saltwater and a sunfish is a freshwater fish-- Ami batted   
her logical persona away. It was a sea, she was sure of it.   
The whole picture now smacked of the illogical. Her father,   
in a normal room with a pair of sunglasses, with a sunfish   
looking through the window at him. It was just the sort of   
image that her father would have painted, because he had   
loved painting this sort of thing. Fantasy. Things that   
couldn't, under normal circumstances, possibly be real.   
Ami was now almost completely convinced that her father,   
or rather, the ghost of her father, had finished her   
painting.  
  
But, it was the signature that cemented the fact that   
her father actually _had_ finished it.  
  
His small, familiar-like-the-back-of-her-hand, stylized   
initials were etched into the corner of the painting's   
window, right below the bottom tip of the sunfish's waving   
tail.  
  
She sat on the edge of her bed and cried. Not tears of   
grief, like she had been for the past several days, but   
tears of pure joy and relief. He was _there_. He had   
acknowledged her goodbye and her love for him.  
  
After a few more minutes of crying, Ami kissed her   
fingertips and pressed them to her painted father's   
forehead, extending her love to him wordlessly. She went to   
the kitchen and poured herself a glass of juice.  
  
It had never tasted sweeter.  
  
END  
  
Wow, it's finally done. Yay for me!  
  
Comments and criticism can be sent to   
daylin@sailorsenshi.i-p.com  
  
Revised: 7/24/02 


End file.
